Clapback 2 Claptrash ( Ja Rule D...

This ain’t no murder inc', it's a burglary of ink

Let’s dig Ja's grave deeper than his last weak link

Time to clapback at the fake clap king—

You brought a pillow to a gunfight, sing-singin’ your way in the ring

You barkin’ up a Shady tree, lemme branch out proper,

Ya style’s old news—like a Ja Rule concert flyer at a barbershop locker.

You was half pop, half flop—

Soundin’ like Ashanti carried ya verse just to make the track not drop.

You from Queens, but you the Jester, ain’t no throne in your scene,

Ja think he rule, but he lost the crown to a guillotine.

I’m cuttin’ heads clean with schemes meaner than 50’s grin,

You couldn't rhyme "fire" with a lighter in a gas-filled wind

You tryna act heavy but got no weight in the game,

Call it Rule of Thumb—you never pointed in the Hall of Fame.

I'm surgical, Ja—this scalpel spit, slash your gimmicks,

I split Ja's syllables like divorce court minutes.

You “Pain is Love”? Nah, pain is hearing you rap,

That voice got more nasal than a cokehead's relapse.

A Rule with no law, I’m settin’ the verdict,

You fell off harder than Murder Inc’s unpaid service.

Your discography’s a joke, I’m laughin’ with no chill,

Even your double entendres couldn’t cop a real deal.

I’m iller than Irv’s taxes, slicker than your fade,

This ain’t beef—it’s a butcher cuttin’ weak rappers for trade

Ja in a box—like he’s boxed in and boxed out,

Tryna draw heat, but your pen’s run out of clout.

You past tense—no presence in the present,

Every verse you spit’s a ghost—haunted, unpleasant.

I rain reign on the kings that pretend to be royal,

You Ja ruled the mic once, now the mic recoil.

Shoulda stayed in them Fast flicks, tryna act hard,

Instead you crashed in rap lanes—no stunt cars

Murder Inc? Please, the only thing you murdered

Was a melody—gaspin’ for breath, straight unheard of.

Shoulda been Ja “Mute”, not Ja Rule the fool,

When I rhyme, I school—when you rhyme, you drool.

I ain't 50, but I'm fifty times the grim reaper,

You soft as lullabies on a broken boom speaker.

I dig deeper—autopsy every whack line you said,

You ain’t fire, you a flicker—like a lighter near dead.

So next time you think of speakin' my name for a pulse,

Remember: dissin’ Em is like signin’ your own results.

You ain’t worth a reply, but I gave you a hearse,

You a parody now—R.I.P. Ja… reverse the verse